Chapter NINETEEN

After Everett's departure, Ann tripped into Floyd's room in a happier state of mind than had been hers for several days. It had been her habit to kneel beside the boy at night and send up a petition for his recovery. Now she would thank God for his goodness to her,--Everett had come to be more like himself, and Floyd's welcoming smile sent a thrill of joy through her. As Ann entered, Fledra looked up from her book. Her pale, beseeching face drew Miss Shellington to her.

"Fledra dear, you study too late and too hard. You don't look at all well."

"I keep tellin' her that same thing, Sister Ann," said Floyd; "but she keeps mutterin' over them words till I know 'em myself."

Miss Shellington turned Fledra's face up to hers, smoothing down the dark curls.

"Go to bed, child; you're absolutely tired out. Kiss me goodnight, Dear."

Fledra loitered in the hall until she heard Miss Shellington leave Floyd; then she stole forward.

"Will you come to my room a little while, Sister Ann?"

Without a word, Ann took the girl's hand; together they entered the blue room.

Fledra wheeled about upon Miss Shellington, when the door had been, closed.

"Do you believe all those things you pray about, Sister Ann?" she appealed brokenly.

Ann questioned Fledra with a look; the girl made clearer her demand by adding:

"Do you believe that Jesus hears you when you ask Him something you want very, very bad?"

She looked so miserable, so frail and lonely, that Ann put her arms about her.

"Sit down here with me, Fledra. There! Put your little tired head right here, and I'll tell you all I can."

"I want to be helped!" murmured Fledra.

"I've known that for sometime," Ann said softly; "and I'm so happy that you've come to me!"

"It's nothin' you can do; but I was thinkin' that perhaps Jesus could do it."

Ann pressed the girl closer.

"Is it something you can't tell me?"

Fledra nodded.

"And you can't tell my brother?"

The girl's nervous start filled Ann with dismay; for now she knew that the trouble rested with Horace. She waited for an answer to her question, and at length Fledra, crestfallen, blurted out:

"I can't tell anybody but--"

"Jesus?" whispered Ann.

"Yes; and I don't know how to tell Him."

Ann thought a moment.

"Fledra, if you wanted someone to do something for you, about which that person knew nothing, wouldn't you have to tell it before it could be granted?"

Fledra nodded.

"Then, that's what you are to do tonight. You are to kneel down here when I am gone, and you are to feel positively sure that God will help, if you ask Him in Jesus' name. Do you think you have faith enough to do that?"

"I don't know what faith is," replied Fledra in a whisper.

"I'll tell you what it is, Dear. Now, then, don't you remember how my brother and I prayed for Floyd?"

Fledra pressed Ann's arm.

"And don't you remember, Dear, that almost immediately he was helped?"

"You had a doctor," said Fledra slowly.

"Yes, for a doctor is God's agent for the good of mankind; but we had faith, too. And in something like this--Is your trouble illness?"

"Only here," answered Flea, laying her hand upon her heart.

Ann could not force Flea's confidence; so she said:

"Then if it is impossible to confide in Horace, or in me, will you pray tonight, fully believing that you will be answered? You must remember how much Jesus loved you to come down to suffer and die for you."

"I don't believe I thought that story was true, Sister Ann." Fledra drew back, and looked up into Ann's shocked face as she spoke, "I shouldn't say I believed it if I didn't, should I?"

"No, Darling; but you must believe--you surely must! You must promise me that you will pray first for faith, then for relief, and tomorrow you will feel better."

"I promise," answered Fledra.

For many minutes after Ann had left her, the girl lay stretched out upon the bed. Her heart pained her until it seemed that she must go directly to Horace and confess her secret.

She got up slowly at last, and, kneeling, began a whispered petition. It was broken by sobs and falling tears, by writhings that tore the tender soul offering it.

Fledra prayed for Horace, and then stopped.

After a time she rose, having done all a girl could do for those she loved, and, undressing, slowly crawled into bed. Through the darkness as she lay looking upward she tried to imagine what kind of a being God was, wondering if He were kindly visaged, or if, when His earthly children sinned, He looked as Horace had looked when she confessed the lie told to Ann. In her imagination, she framed the Savior of the world like unto the man she loved when he smiled upon her, and then she believed, and believed mightily. In likening Jesus to Horace--in bringing the Savior nearer through the lineaments of her loved one--she gathered out of her unbelief a great belief that He could, and would, smooth away all the troubles that had arisen in her life.

* * * * *

That night she turned and tossed for several hours, praying and weeping, weeping and praying, until from sheer fatigue she lay perfectly quiet. Suddenly she sat up and listened. The stupor of slumber dulled her hearing, and she struggled to catch again the sound that had awakened her. From somewhere across the hall she heard a faint click, click, which sounded as though some mechanic's tool were being used.

Fledra slipped from the bed and opened the door stealthily. She crept along the hall in her bare feet, terrified by the muffled sound, and stopped before the velvet curtains that were drawn closely across the dining-room doorway. Someone was tampering with the silver chest.

For a moment terror almost forced Fledra back to her room without investigating; but the thought that somebody was stealing Ann's precious family plate caused her to slip her fingers between the curtains and peep in.

The lock of the steel safe was lighted by the rays of a dark-lantern, and Fledra could see two shadowy figures on the floor before it. One held the light, while the other turned a small hammer machine containing a slender drill. The girl did not have the courage to scream a warning to Horace and the servants, and before she could move of a sudden one of the men whispered:

"The damn thing is harder'n hell, Lem. I guess I'll take a crack at this here hinge."

The name awoke the senses of the trembling girl, and instantly she knew the man who had spoken to be Lon Cronk. A chill gathered round her heart and froze the very marrow in her bones. She dropped the curtain and fled back to her room. Standing against the door, she pressed her hands over her face to stifle the loud breathing. Lem and Lon were robbing the house! She would be forced then to let thieves have the contents of the safe; for, if Pappy Lon knew that she and Flukey were housed there, he would take them away. But, if he made off with the plate, no one would ever know who had done it, and her sick brother would still be safe in Ann's care.

"I won't go to 'em. I won't! I won't! They can take the whole thing for all of me!"

She turned sharply as though she had heard a voice that had made answer to her. With her faculties benumbed by the terror of the men in the dining-room, and yet remembering that her grief had been subdued, she turned her face upward, and fancied she saw the Christ-man, so like Horace, descending into the room. But the face, instead of smiling at her, looked melancholy and sad.

It was the dawn of a lasting belief in the Son of God, her first real vision of Him. She gazed steadily at the beautiful apparition, and then said haltingly:

"I'm goin' back to stop 'em, and if Pappy Lon takes me back to the squatter settlement then help me if ye can, dear Jesus!"

The struggle was over, and with rigid desperation Fledra again opened the door and stepped into the hall. Gliding swiftly along to the entrance of the dining-room, she flung aside the curtains and appeared like a shade before Lem and Lon.

The squatter saw her first; but in the semidarkness did not recognize her. He lifted his arm, and a flash of steel sent her trembling backward.

"Don't open yer mug, Kid, or I'll shoot yer head off!"

Then he recognized her, and stepped back to Lem's side.

"It's Flea, it's Flea Cronk!" he gasped.

The girl advanced into the room.

"What do you want here, Pappy Lon? Did you come to steal?"

She saw Lem grimacing at her through the rays of the lantern. The scowman looked so evil, so awful, as he grinningly raised his steel hook, that her faith very nearly fled. Crabbe's heavy face was working with violent emotion. His full neck moved with horrid convulsions, while a discord of low noises came from his throat. The girl, clad in her white nightgown, under which he could trace the slender body, filled him again with passionate longing.

"By God! it's little Flea!" he exclaimed at last.

"Yep," threw back Lon. "We found somethin' we didn't expect--eh, Lem?"

"Did you come to steal?" Fledra demanded again, this time looking at the canalman.

"Yep; but we didn't know that you was here, Flea."

"Then you won't take anything--now, will you?"

"We don't go till you come with us, Flea!" Lon moved nearer her as he spoke. "Ye be my brat, and ye'll come home with yer pappy!"

Fledra choked for breath.

"I can't go with you tonight," she replied, bending over in supplication. "Flukey's sick here, and I have to stay."

"Sick! Sick, ye say?" Cronk exclaimed.

"Yes, he's been in bed ever since we left home, and he can't walk, and I won't go without him."

"I'll take ye both," said Lon ferociously. "I'll come after ye, and I'll kill the man what keeps ye away from me! I'm a thinkin' a man can have his own brats!"

Fledra did not set up an argument upon this point. She wanted to get the men out of the house, so that she might think out a plan to save her brother and herself.

"Ye'll have to let Flukey stay until he gets well, and then mebbe we'll come back."

"There ain't no mebbe about it," growled Lon. "Ye'll come when I say it, and Lem ain't through with ye yet, nuther! Be ye, Lem?"

Never, since the children had left his hut, had Lon felt such a desire to torture them. The dead woman seemed to call out to him for revenge. The wish for the Shellington baubles and the money he might find was nothing compared to the delight he would feel in dragging the twins back to Ithaca. Granny Cronk was there no longer, and everything would go his way! He put out his hand and touched Crabbe.

"We ain't goin' to steal nothin' in this house, Lem," he said sullenly; "but I'll come tomorry and take the kids. Then we be done with this town. Ye'll get yer brother ready by tomorry mornin'. Ye hear, Flea?"

"Yes," answered Flea dully.

"If Flukey be too sick to walk, he can ride. I've got the money, and all I want be you two brats, and, if ye don't come when I tell ye to, then it'll be worse for them what's harborin' ye. And don't ye so much as breathe to the man what owns this house that we was here tonight--or--I'll kill Flukey when I get him back to the shanty!"

His glance took in the beautiful room, and, unable to suppress a smile, he taunted:

"I'm a thinkin' ye'll see a difference 'tween the hut and this place--eh, Flea?"

"And between this and the scow," chuckled Lem.

"Yep, 'tween this an' the scow," repeated Lon. "Come on, Lem. We'll go now, an' tomorry we'll come for ye, Flea. No man ain't no right to keep another man's kids."

Fledra's past experiences with her squatter father were still so vivid in her mind that she made no further appeal to him; for she feared to suffer again the humiliation of a blow before Lem. She stood near the table, shivering, her teeth chattering, and her body swaying with fright and cold. To whom did she dare turn? Not to Ann or to Horace; for Lon had forbidden it. To tell Flukey would only make him very ill again. Lon was advancing toward her as these thoughts raced through her mind. She drew back when he thrust out one of his horny hands.

"I ain't a goin' to hit ye, Flea; but I'm goin' to make ye know that I ain't goin' to have no foolin', and that ye belong to me, and so does Flukey, and that, when I come for ye, ye're to have yer duds ready."

Lem neared the open window, and Lon turned to follow him.

* * * * *

For fully three minutes after they had gone, the girl stood watching the black hole through which they had disappeared, where now the snow came fluttering in. Then she crept forward and lowered the window noiselessly. With swift footsteps she ran back through the hall and into the bedroom. After turning on the light, she drew on a dressing-gown and slipped her feet into a pair of red slippers.

Somewhere from the story above came the sound of footfalls, and then the creaking of stairs. The girl stood holding her hand over her beating heart. A servant, or possibly Ann, had heard the noises and was coming down. Suddenly into her mind came the prayer Floyd loved.

"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child."

She said the words over several times; but had ceased whispering when a low knock came upon her door. She opened it, and saw Horace standing in his dressing-gown and slippers. For a moment she looked at him with almost unseeing eyes, and her lips moved tremulously, as if she would speak and could not. Horace, noticing her agitation, spoke first.

"Fledra, I thought I heard you. I looked down and saw a light shining from your window. Is anything the matter?"

Fledra could not find her voice to reply. She had not expected him, and, locking her fingers tightly together, she stood wide-lidded and trembling.

"Were you speaking to someone?" asked Horace.

"Yes, I was. I was speaking to Jesus just before you came. I was asking Him to help me."

The man looked at the red gown hanging over her white nightrobe, the tossed black curls, and the pale, sensitive face before he said:

"Fledra, whatever is the matter with you? Surely, there is something I can do."

"Sister Ann said I would be happier, and we all would, if I asked Jesus; and I was askin' Him jest now."

Horace eyed her dubiously.

"It is right to ask Him to help you, of course; but, child, it isn't right for you to act toward me as you do."

Fledra was so desirous of his love and confidence that she made as if to speak. She took two steps forward, then hesitated. Remembering Ann and the care she had given Floyd, her hand fell convulsively on the door, and she tried to close it. She dared not tell him of Lon's midnight visit to the home, and wondered if he would give her up to her squatter father, and let Flukey be taken back to the settlement.

"I told ye the truth when I said I was prayin'," she said; "but I was thinkin', too, if it was right for a father to have his own children, if he was to ask for 'em."

Horace, not understanding her enigmatical words, regarded her gravely.

"What a queer girl you are, anyway, Fledra!" he exclaimed. He spoke almost irritably. He felt like grasping her up and shaking her as one might an obstreperous child.

His moody silence made Fledra repeat her words.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Horace answered; "but, I suppose, if a father's children were being kept from him, he could take them if he wished. Fledra, look at me!"

She raised her gaze slowly, her somber eyes smiting the watching man as might a blow. Her beseeching expression arrested the bitter speech that rose to his lips. As the memory of her hard work gripped him, he bent forward and took her slim, cold hand in his.

"Fledra, I want you to pay attention to what I am going to say. I feel sure that you want to be a good girl. If I were not, I could not bear it. Even if you don't trust me, I'm going to help you all I can, anyway."

"And pray," gasped Fledra, "pray, Brother Horace, that I can be just what you want me to be, and that I can stay with Floyd in your house!"

The girl closed the door quickly in his face, and Shellington moved slowly away, racking his brain for some solution of the problem.

With their minds in a perturbed state, Lem and Lon passed silently back into the cemetery. The shock of the girl's appearance had awed them both. They were nearing the toolhouse before Scraggy came into Lem's mind.

The whole situation was changed, now that Flea was coming to him. It was the same to him whether she wanted to come or not; nor did it matter that he had promised Screech Owl that she should be in the scow. He still wanted his boy to help him with his work; but Scraggy was a person wholly out of his life.

The two men halted in front of the shed.

"There be a woman in there," said Lem in a low voice.

"What woman?" asked Lon.

"Scraggy."

"Scraggy! How'd she come in here?"

"I took her in," said Lem. "She were the woman what that guy throwed over the fence."

Lon pushed his companion aside and pressed through the small doorway. He cast the light of the lantern about; but no Screech Owl was in sight.

"If Scraggy was over here, Lem," he said doubtfully, "then she's gone. We'd better scoot and get a place to stay all night."